


When the Banshee Keens, Men Die

by deathwailart



Series: The Courts [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Banshees, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:40:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the banshee keens, men die.</p>
<p>Only that's not strictly true.</p>
<p>Part of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/718075/chapters/1330354">these</a> <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/718075/chapters/1330355">verses</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Banshee Keens, Men Die

And it is so sad, so heart breaking, so painful that all the old stories are forgotten, old ways of life crumbling into dust, ways that had stood for so long now twisted for the consumption of popular culture and it makes her rage and boil. So few now know her name, her story - they forget who she is, what she is, trapped here under the fairy mounds, here in Otherworld. She was the very first and she gave her own God’s blood to seed the lines. Some lines have scattered or died from the ravages of time or history or other lines are weak and diluted, barely an ounce of her left in them. They do not come to Otherworld when they pass. The crows flit in and out though, always, always her birds. She wonders if anyone suspects that they are her birds and report to her always - they are lazy, these humans, stupid too. When the banshee keens, men die but they have been marked to die for so many long years even before they were born. What is written is written and written by her Scribes, the ones who see the future and interpret her word all the more clearly, those who have not yet passed to become shades and who can take wing and fly out into the world to make sure her will is done, to report on what occurs above her.  
  
But she hungers. Yearns for the days when she flew above battles to incite frenzy and fury but no longer, here, beneath the fairy mounds with all the rest of the Tuatha de Danann. How she loathes it, locked in a cage as she is. She who washed the grave clothes of great heroes and now she is reduced to death, not wars, not glorious sacrifice. She has any death but not enough to make her as strong as she ought to be; the young, the old, the sick, the weak, the weary.  
  
She watches her lines, watches this new little one who obeys her, who loves her so and her mad words and prophecies begin to fall into place. There is enough to twist in her, the right combinations and she feeds that ugliness, gives it a name that makes the girl shudder. There is no Otherworld self, just the girl, but all the pain, anger, hurt, fear, grief and yes, death, always death, mix together. The ugliness of it all. Survival instinct, _her_ blood. She tells her to give in, that it will aid her. It will make her survive, relying on the crow in her blood so that what is written by her Scribes will be done. Morrígan’s chose, her best and her bloodiest and this girl seeks to join.  
  
She looks and sees a fairy dog, a scythe, blood and a daughter. And beyond that she sees all the hidden things creeping out from shadow all through the lens of a family shattered and an old line made new.


End file.
